


will we survive in this, our new wilderness

by iridescentrey



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampires, F/M, Human/Vampire Relationship, Vampire Mallory, my brain took the wheel, rated M for violence, what happened here? I don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21533809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentrey/pseuds/iridescentrey
Summary: They come and go all too fast, humans. Fleeting ghosts that leave an impression all too difficult to erase.
Relationships: Michael Langdon/Mallory
Comments: 18
Kudos: 19
Collections: The MCA





	will we survive in this, our new wilderness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts), [sophthebi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophthebi/gifts).



> Behold, I published something. It took a year and it's short af, but still!

They come and go all too fast, humans. Fleeting ghosts that leave an impression all too difficult to erase. You remember most of them, some in excruciating detail you'd rather let go of.

_…_

Desperation, raw and exposed, fear and realization twisting time-worn features; back then it had yet to truly sink in that you would never see such thing in the mirror. You’d never change; a statue, frozen in time. (After what you’ve done, you wouldn’t dare to look into your eyes anyway.)

The first human life you’ve ever taken. (Dampened afternoon light in the cracks between wooden boards, the sweet smell of hay and something you vaguely recalled should smell like iron. Twisted necks of white-feathered hens, red, red. Hunger. The foreign way it all felt, every second, every movement.)

Michael had led her right into your trap (golden locks and innocent pools of blue; no one would ever suspect a thing), impervious mask of apathy and sweet lies on his tongue, lies he'd spun even though you hadn't dared to ask him for them. (He was never afraid of you like you were of yourself; later you’d learn it worked both ways.)

He'd bashed her head in with a garden shovel, held her down for you, hands shaking and heart beating like a war drum, even long after her own went still. His own grandmother. He swore he'd never cry for her, never cry because of her again.

He hadn't, not one tear. Not like you had.

Blood slick fingers in your matted hair, he kept the strands away from your face as you drank, drank until her joints went still and the void stopped gnawing at your insides.

He pulled you close and held you through the sobs, filled your head with whispered promises you weren't sure he'd be capable of keeping (it wasn’t the first time you were promised you’d never have to face your demons on your own). He let you hide in the crook of his neck, rest your red-doused mouth against the tender skin at his pulse point; too trustful, or uncaring. Back then you could hardly tell. You held onto him until the shadows grew long enough to envelop the carnage you've both left in your wake. You traced the map of blue and purple bruises blooming beneath the red-stained collar of his shirt to keep yourself at peace.

It's then, you think, that you fell in love with the fragility that would never again be yours to own. You promised yourself you'd never let him lose his own.

Like a fool, you tried to keep your word.

.

He emptied the vaults of his family's heirlooms and left the rooms vacant and spotless for the help to find at sunrise. The bog was welcoming enough for all you tried to hide from prying eyes; and if the dirt drank in all the red you'd missed, nobody paid it any mind.

For all intents and purposes, you were gone.

.

You watched him make plans, quiet determination drawing a crease between his eyebrows, cheeks flushed with the rush of excitement of not knowing. It's so fast, the way he's always moved forward; it nearly frightened you. Frightened he'd leave one day, leave you alone with nothing but an echo of words in your mind, memories of gentle fingers and a bitter-sweet aftertaste of what-could've-beens.

But he stayed, hand always stretched out for you to take. In but a month, he taught you more of the world than you'd seen in all the years of meekness, begrimed aprons, and labor-calloused palms. He'd made his place in the night and reined it as if he'd never known enough of daylight to truly be able to miss it. He pulled you out of the shadows, you fumbled with dances he's known since he was a child. He stayed with you in the dark and you pretended to ignore the glint that set his eyes alight every time the last breath escaped someone's lungs, every time he brushed his knuckles through the tears on your cheeks and redness painting your chin.

.

"You're not a monster, Mallie," he'd whispered to you one morning, early hour marked by honey-colored wisps of sunlight that broke in by the edges of the curtain-covered window and made the dust swirl in the air like dancers.

You let him let it all out, just like he'd once allowed you to do. Golden strands between your fingers, shaky sighs against the skin of your throat; shivers down your back, down to where his palm rested at the base of your spine. It came pouring, all the anger, all the guilt, all the shame that gnawed at him with each memory of how much he had reveled in seeing the fear in Constance's eyes.

That day, you both cried. You traced the tracks made by his tears and let him drink your own from the rosiness of your lips.

You wondered what it would be like to be courted by him, in a world where your parents were still alive and such a thing would ever be possible. Afternoon strolls with nosy chaperons, shy smiles, one or two stolen kisses; the only redness would be the velveteen petals of thorn-less roses he'd bring you.

It took no time at all for such impressions to get lost, to drown in the warmth you licked out of his mouth. You let the hunger thrum and fester in your chest, kept him close as you guided his hand exactly where you needed it; then his lips, then all of him. You felt safe with him in the shadows, safe enough to let yourself be ravenous like the daylight would never allow you to be.

.

Once he let the slumber win him over, you retraced all the kisses you'd given him with your fingertips. Cheekbones, jawline, the dusting of freckles on his nose, his collarbone, his shoulders. (Lower lip you'd nicked on accident and tasted for the very first time what he'd been keeping from you all along. He all but laughed through the tears, let you relish the taste on your tongue.) You dreaded the day they'd all change and wither, day he’d begin to crave things you’d never be able to give him. The day his hand would no longer be there to keep soothe you, to keep you steady. The day you'd be forced to let him go.

Not once had he asked you to stop that from happening; you stowed your disappointment away and smiled through it, tried to be thankful. (You'd say yes before the question left his mouth.)

.

In the end, he asked it with his eyes. Before that, you'd never seen Michael truly afraid.

He tried to hide it, of course; light-hearted jokes and smile that never extended past his pallid, dry lips. Shallow promises you both new couldn't be kept, all the beautiful and false words he'd spun to conceal his pain. You mirrored the same sad-eyed smile, you nodded, you took care of him. Did everything to ease it. Helped him out of sweat and blood-soaked shirts (you wished you were the cause of their state), brought him fresh handkerchiefs to cover his mouth with, wiped his fever-clammy skin.

(The doctors came and went. With time, they stopped coming. Left you with silence and a number you had to force yourself to apply to reality.)

When he wasn't looking, you cried. Sneaked out of another temporary home you shared and buried your tears in cracked spines and ripped arteries of souls nobody would miss. The least you could do was to share their pain. (With every fading heartbeat, you wondered _what if_? What if you were stealing them away from someone else?) The hope you nurtured was naive, you knew. That the loneliness awaiting for you wouldn't have to be so horribly immediate. (That anyone else could take your hand in theirs, knowing everything it's guilty of, and still cherish every bone.) Three years with him had passed like a blink of an eye. Twenty times as much would hardly make a difference; wouldn't be enough to leave you not demanding more.

You rested your head on his chest, listened to the way the rot festering in his chest ate the swiftness of his breaths away. Fingers twisted in your hair, hushed whispers; he'd confessed how scared he was. Of damnation, of leaving you. (He'd always claimed he didn't believe in God. Or the Devil. A lot can change in those last moments, you’d found.)

It's the look in his eyes that made you say the words. (He didn't respond. Not until hours later, when you were sure he'd been asleep.)

.

He asked for one more sunrise to watch. You could never tell him no.

…

They come and go all too fast; now that you're not alone, you let them.

You welcome them into your life (bodies, hearts, and minds), you do your best to hold on to all that they bring (to remain human enough to keep reminding one another what it means). The intensity of each emotion they can't help but get swept into; the ephemerality of all states, good and bad. The change, the frailty, the thrill of not knowing the time and date. The appreciation it teaches you to hold for things that don't last.

It would be all too easy to lose yourself in surety, in stillness. Too easy to blend into the marble of your home and let it become but a mausoleum. So you don't.

Stars and moon move across the vastness of the sky each night and you do your best to love them as much as you'd loved the warmth of the sun. You embrace brand new, but don't forget the old and familiar. In time, you stop mourning every drop that pays for the borrowed time you both live on, you start thanking them. You thank them for letting you keep him, thank for his patience, for the steadiness of his hands gripping yours as they shake. For every kiss and the taste that it brings.

Without him, you'd go still. Perhaps so would he, without you. You never rest for long enough, the two of you. You praise one another with every breathless word.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope you guys enjoyed.


End file.
